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“I can’t help but notice,” Lord Dunsmore mused. “Both the Viscount of Drysdale and the Duke of Longmire were, as you say, potential suitors for the Lady Arabella Follett.”
“That’s true,” Charles agreed. “If the Duke of Tiverwell had been behind the murders, then that might be a clue. However, what I know for certain is that the Duke of Tiverwell truly expected the Lady Arabella to wed the Duke of Longmire.”
“Is that so?” Lord Dunsmore asked. He downed the rest of his glass, then refilled it. He also refilled Charles’s glass.
“It’s so,” Charles replied. “He didn’t deserve her, though.”
“You love her, don’t you?” Lord Dunsmore asked. “If I may be so bold.” He gestured with his glass toward Charles.
“Is it that obvious?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be. It was an old pain, one that he was growing accustomed to.
“Anyone with eyes can see,” Lord Dunsmore replied.
“I love her,” Charles said. “God help me, I love her.”
“Then you shall have her!” Lord Dunsmore declared. “You will—you will come and work for me. We will solve cases together, you and I. And we will blackmail Mr. Bones into allowing you to marry her.”
“Mr. Bones will have us both killed,” Charles said, knowing that it would never come to pass. The wound that he carried would always be fresh.
“He may yet,” Lord Dunsmore replied. “Although, it has been over four-and-twenty hours, and I haven’t had so much as an errand-boy follow me.”
“He might not be the murderer,” Charles pointed out. “He was friends with all of the victims. He truly seemed upset.” Charles had been to all of the funerals, so far. He wouldn’t attend the Duke of Longmire’s, as he hadn’t known him well at all.
“What are we missing?” Lord Dunsmore asked. He pulled out a sheet of paper, and began to draw a map. “We have the Millgate Club,” he murmured, drawing a square, and neatly writing it in. “Then, across the street, there is the Stanhope Club. Rivals, both of them.”
“Could it be someone from there?” Charles suggested. He had never been to the Stanhope Club. He didn’t know many of the members, aside from Lord Dunsmore.
“Possibly,” he mused, filling in the establishments on his map. “Just down the street, there are several bars, one pub, and two brothels, one of which is the scene of the Duke’s murder.” He placed an X over the brothel.
“What do you think?” Charles asked. Lord Dunsmore often already had several suspicions. His mind was like an automaton that was always wound—it was always in motion.
“I wonder if it’s someone from one of the establishments,” Lord Dunsmore mused. “I’ll have to take a look.”
“I’ll come with you,” Charles offered.
“No. The last place that you should be is where any of the murders have occurred. As long as no one can place you there, you will be safe.”
“Will you be all right?” Charles asked.
“Never fear, Mr. Conolly,” Lord Dunsmore replied, standing up. He pulled on his coat. “I won’t go alone. I’ll stop by the Stanhope and pick up some of my chums. We’ll make a little trip down the road.” He winked at Charles.
“Good luck, then,” Charles said, standing up. They both shook hands.
“Don’t forget,” Lord Dunsmore reminded him, “We have Lord and Lady Danstall’s party tomorrow night.”
“I won’t forget,” Charles assured him. It was their twentieth wedding anniversary. It was to be a ball of epic proportions. All of the ton was going. Charles, as Lord Danstall’s barrister, had been invited.
Lord Dunsmore put his hat on, and walked out. Charles decided to go home. Mrs. Osbourne could provide him with both an alibi and supper. He put on his coat and his hat, bid Arthur goodbye, and then hired a Hansom Cab to take him home.
